


Might Be Nice

by stitch_witch_82



Series: Fortunate Prognostications [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ALL YOUR PRONOUN ARE BELONG TO CROWLEY, Asexuality Spectrum, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Aziraphale recites poetry, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Cuddling, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Flirty Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, M/M, Morning Sex, Morning Wood, Oral Sex, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pet Names, Public Display of Affection, Shapeshifter Crowley, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Shower Sex, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), light references to kink/bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 09:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitch_witch_82/pseuds/stitch_witch_82
Summary: Crowley really enjoys flirting and teasing over dinner at the Ritz, but back at Aziraphale's bookshop later that night, he realizes he may have bitten off more than he can chew, nudge nudge wink wink.Follow-up to "May I?"





	Might Be Nice

Sunday morning, Aziraphale explained the plan that Agnes's prophecy had inspired. They left Crowley's flat wearing each other's faces. 

Sunday afternoon, the forces of heaven and hell came for them, as they knew they would. But they passed the trials of Hell-Fire and Holy-Water. And came back, and met in the park again, and, when no one was looking, returned to their own shapes.

Sunday night they had dinner at the Ritz. It was a celebration. The food was divine and the champagne light and bubbly, and they toasted _to the world..._ And things were different, too. They smiled more, they held back less. Their knees brushed against each other under the table.

“We _won_, Crowley,” Aziraphale was saying. “We... us. And they'll leave us alone now. We can really truly be our own side now.”

Crowley, of course, took so much sheer and utter delight in Aziraphale using those particular words. He forced himself to look cool, in control, they were in public after all. Nobody could see the look of complete adoration he knew was burning in his eyes, except possibly the angel sitting next to him. But that was okay. That was allowed. He and Aziraphale were free now, free to be themselves and feel their feelings and _love and be loved_.

“We did,” he agreed. “Saved the world.”

“Not just the world,” Aziraphale said softly. “Us. The forces of heaven and hell came for us but we survived it. We outsmarted them, I mean, with a little help from Agnes. All the fretting I was doing about how last night night might be all the time we had... But now we have the _whole future_ to be... to be _us._”

Crowley's eyes widened a little. There were things he wanted to say about _last night_ but then a waiter arrived. Something extravagant for Aziraphale to try, and something small for Crowley to have a few nibbles of while he watched his angel eat. He had always enjoyed watching Aziraphale take delight in the flavours of food, far more than he cared for eating. He'd often tease the angel by calling him _hedonistic_, and Aziraphale would sternly counter that he was being _Epicurean_ and they would just smile at each other and agree to disagree. Same thing, really, wasn't it?

But tonight, Aziraphale seemed just a tad distracted. He wasn't relishing every bite like he usually did. He was almost... rushed? He finished his main course and didn't even order seconds, just picked a smallish desert, and refills for the champagne.

The conversation the flowed between them was amiable enough, but Crowley felt a little put out, not being able to enjoy his favourite food-related activity, i.e. watching the angel luxuriate in every single bite.

“What is it, angel?” he finally asked. Something _had_ to be wrong.

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” Aziraphale asked between bites. He _did_ finish chewing and swallowing before he spoke, of course. Something would have to be _really_ wrong for him not to do that at least. Aziraphale speaking with his mouth full would be a sign that a second apocalypse was upon them, or something.

“You _know_ what I mean, angel. You aren't... pausing after every bite to _savour the flavour_. Care to share what's on your mind?”

“Oh. Dreadfully sorry. I suppose I am just a wee bit distracted.” The angel was actually blushing. “I was just thinking about last night.”

Crowley's thoughts ran over the previous night. With the bookshop in ruins, he'd invited Aziraphale to stay at his place. And he'd accepted, and they'd... well. _Things_ had happened. With the... the love, and the sex, and the crying, and the laughing, and the falling asleep in each other's arms.

Some part of Crowley was having trouble believing it had really happened. But Aziraphale's blush seemed like some sort of invitation, and he couldn't help accepting.

“Ahh,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows just a little. “Got you all hot and bothered again, have I? Enough to put you off dinner?”

Aziraphale blushed even pinker, if that was possible, and took a furious bite of the berry-covered dessert on his plate, giving Crowley a sort of 'I won't dignify that with a response,' look.

But Crowley was enjoying this too much to leave well enough alone. “Reliving our little _intimate encounter_, angel? Or are you already planning ahead to chapter two?” His hand reached out under the table to rest on Aziraphale's thigh.

The angel swallowed, very deliberately, and did not look up. He took a sip from his champagne glass, his face schooled to a calm, blank expression. But he _was_ still blushing.

“There is _so much more_ I want you to do to me, you know,” Crowley continued. “So many different ways you can have me. Humans have come up with _hundreds_ of ways of pleasuring these corporeal bodies.” He shifted his chair an inch closer so his hand could creep a little higher up the angel's thigh.

“Crowley, _please_,” Aziraphale said, looking positively scandalized. “We're in _public_.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley countered with a grin, “Not a fan of public displays of affection, are we? Don't want me _all over you_ while the humans are watching?”

“They might not be the only ones watching,” the angel insisted.

Crowley could have teased further, could have argued that it didn't really _matter_ if heaven and hell found out for sure what they most certainly already suspected... Aziraphale was adorable when he was flustered, after all. But there was a hint of genuine anxiety to the angel's tone, so the demon relented. For now. He removed his hand and went back to watching with interest as Aziraphale finished his dessert. The angel still seemed a little rushed. Crowley would puzzle it out later.

He alternated between gazing adoringly and making obviously flirtatious glances, saving his most lustful grin for when the waiter came with the bill.

Aziraphale left a rather absurd tip, and, when the waiter had gone again, said “I rather think you should take me back to the bookshop, my dear.”

Crowley worried, briefly, that he'd pushed too far. Only for a moment, though. No, the old days of dreading that his beloved would never care for him were gone. Things had changed. Aziraphale would tell him in no uncertain terms if he actually were going too far or too fast.

Once they were outdoors he took the angel's hand and interlaced their fingers. Aziraphale didn't seem to protest at this, which emboldened Crowley a bit. Leading the way to where the Bentley was parked (he would not - _could not_ \- trust his precious car to valet parking) he drew their joined hands up to his face, and gently brushed his lips across Aziraphale's knuckles. The angel gave him a look, but did not otherwise express any objection.

The drive back didn't take long. It had gotten somewhat late, so there was little traffic. Aziraphale put a CD in the player that was _clearly_ labeled as Bach's Brandenburg Concertos, but ended up sounding rather a lot like Freddie Mercury singing _Good Old Fashioned Loverboy_. Crowley certainly didn't mind. Until Aziraphale less-than-casually placed a hand on his thigh. He blinked, and swallowed, and fought with all his might to keep his focus on the road.

Back in Soho, he found a parking spot half a block from the bookshop and pulled in. As the stereo and engine grew quiet, he turned to look over at his passenger.

“Do come in,” Aziraphale said with his a sweet and not-entirely-innocent smile. Crowley found himself torn between wanting to bend to his angel's every whim, and some rather jarring memories of the fire. But the whim-bending won out.

He locked up the car and followed to the bookshop door, waiting excitedly as the angel unlocked and opened it, before gesturing for Crowley to enter, following him in placidly, casually turning on the lights and re-locking the door.

And then suddenly Crowley found himself pinned to the wall. Aziraphale's nose was mere millimetres from his own. It starkly mirrored that time in the building that used to be a satanic nunnery, but...

“_You_” the angel said in a fierce whisper, “Are a _naughty... wicked_ little demon, and you know _just_ how to _tempt_ me, and I rather think... I rather think you ought to be _punished_.” His eyes were alight with mischief.

“I-is that so?” Crowley asked. He hadn't been expecting _this_. Hadn't been expecting how much it excited him, either. “I've been naughty, have I?”

“The _naughtiest_,” Aziraphale confirmed, looking positively predatory.

And then Crowley was being kissed, rather thoroughly, and he was trying to kiss back but, having his shoulders pinned so _very_ firmly, all he could really do was close his eyes and meekly part his lips as the angel's eager tongue pushed its way into his mouth. He could taste a hint of the fresh berries and heavy cream from Aziraphale's dessert, and he whimpered, helplessly but not unhappily.

When he was finally released, he opened his eyes to see Aziraphale turn his back and stride purposefully toward the back room of the shop, gesturing for Crowley to follow. And so follow he did, his curiosity sparked. What on Earth was the angel up to now? Apart from dropping his jacket on a chair rather than hanging it on the coat rack as usual... _That eager, is he?_ Crowley wondered.

Beyond the back room, a narrow door led to a narrow staircase, which in turn led up to a tiny flat that Aziraphale very rarely used. But evidently he was going to put it to use now, for he mounted the staircase with barely a glance back. Like a moth to a flame, Crowley followed.

The minuscule upstairs flat consisted of a postage-stamp-sized entryway, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. That was it. It was all cluttered, and there were books everywhere, but Crowley noticed that it seemed to have been dusted recently. Aziraphale stood in the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed, the bashful blushes replaced by a very serious look, and he nodded toward an overstuffed chair at the top of the stairs. It was that same ridiculous beige tartan that the angel was so fond of, and Crowley couldn't help but smile at that. He collapsed into it and sprawled out across it, which is what chairs were for, after all.

“So,” the angel said, looking down on him. “Shall we discuss your punishment?”

“I... uh, yes?” Crowley wasn't sure what to expect. For all that he'd teased about all the ways humans liked to play their little sex games, this was _way_ beyond his area of expertise. Perhaps he'd bitten off more than he could chew here...

Aziraphale's expression softened. “You needn't worry, my love,” he assured. “I will never do _anything_ to you that you don't consent to. If you become uncomfortable, you must tell me to stop. I just rather thought that, last night, you seemed to prefer it when I took charge, yes? This is just going to... take that a little further. If that's alright with you.”

Crowley nodded, but it wasn't an entirely honest nod. He wasn't sure.

“Last night,” Aziraphale said softly, looking down with that adoring smile, “I _cherished_ you, and worshipped you, and told you how beautiful you look and how very dear you are to me, yes?”

Crowley nodded again, blushing.

“And you mentioned tonight at dinner that there were _so_ many more ways I could have you. Things you wanted me to do to you. Why don't you tell me about those, hmm? And spare no detail, please. Tell me _everything_.”

“Oh.” Crowley wanted to. He wanted so very much to have deep, wicked little fantasies that only Aziraphale could fulfill. But what was he supposed to say to that? 'Tie me up and spank me?' He didn't know. He really had no idea. He really was a horrid demon, not knowing anything about... what did the humans call it? Kinks and... fetishes? _Whatever_. It had never mattered. It was silly, temporary, _human_ stuff that hat never meant a thing to him.

But he wanted so desperately to be cool and suave and charming, to live up to Aziraphale's expectations of him, to play this game, which after all _he_ had started, flirting outrageously at dinner, and _win_ it.

“I...” he began, “I would like you to...” but he just could not, no matter how he tried, come up with anything to say. He took his sunglasses off and set them atop a stack of books, staring at Aziraphale's feet.

“Crowley, dear, what's wrong?” Aziraphale's face had been wiped clean of all emotions but concern. He stepped over closer and knelt by the chair, taking one of Crowley's hands between both of his own.

Perceptive angel.

“I don't know,” Crowley half wailed. “I don't _know_, angel. I dunno how any of that stuff works. I flirted and I teased you because it was fun, and because I thought you liked it, and because the feeling of knowing you want me is _everything_, and don't get me wrong, last night was _wonderful_ but... I don't know what I want, other than for _you_ to do what _you_ want. All this sex stuff has never... mattered that much to me? I could take it or leave it. I could be just as content just to fall asleep in your arms and just lie there all night while you read a book. Sit in your shop and talk over drinks. See a show. Go for a picnic. Watch the stars.” The lump in his chest was growing harder. “Don't get me wrong, I... I _loved_ last night. Loved how you worked so hard to make me feel good. Loved every bit of it. Holding you and kissing you and being with you and knowing you love me, you _want_ me. But I get very nearly as much enjoyment out of watching you eat a scrumptious dessert as I did out of...” his voice failed him and he made a gesture in the approximate direction of the bedroom. “The sex bit.” He bit his lip, staring at a spot in the wallpaper to avoid Aziraphale's eyes.

He needn't have been afraid, however.

“Oh, Crowley. I'm sorry. I should have realized. You've _never_ been as keen on the, ah, pleasures of the flesh, as I have. You've loved me so unwaveringly for so long, and my wicked little brain jumped straight to sex just as soon as I knew it was within the realm of possibility. Again. I really should have known you weren't ready for _kink_. I guess we know which one of us is _really_ the naughty one.” Aziraphale shook his head in self-reproach. Then he brought the hand he was holding up to his lips, gently turned it over and placed a soft kiss on the sensitive skin at Crowley's wrist. “Forgive me?” he asked.

“Of course.” Crowley could never say no to that face. Cloud-pale hair and sky-blue eyes and warm cheeks and soft lips that just _begged_ to be kissed. Such an earnest expression. Such beauty. Always such beauty.

Aziraphale had seen something in Crowley's eyes, or read his mind or something, because then he was kneeling next to the chair and they were kissing again. Just soft and gentle and _there_, and that was okay. More than okay. Crowley leaned forward and held Aziraphale's face between his hands.

“It's not to say I don't _ever_ want to try that stuff with you,” Crowley mumbled. “I'll, uh, do some research. Figure out what I might be interested in. I just don't think I'm ready yet. For anything beyond the basics. What I said about different _ways you could have me_ was more along the lines of...” he gestured to himself. “Have me like this, or...” he concentrated, and squirmed a little, and his body changed. Softened into a form that had slightly curvier hips and breasts, and a slightly less angular face. “Or like this, maybe?” she suggested. “Or...” She rolled her shoulders and slowly blinked her eyes, before shifting to a more androgynous version of herself. “Or like this, if you like,” they concluded.

Gender stuff, Crowley could do. They'd been collecting genders for _centuries_. Millennia, even. They'd been a man, and a woman, and all manner of delightful identities in between and outside of that imaginary binary. One of their favourite things about humans; the gender stuff. They chanced a glance at Aziraphale.

The angel's eyes were shining with surprise and adoration. He kissed their hand again. “Oh, _Crowley_. Oh my beauty. My dewdrop. My rosepetal. My starlight.”

Crowley blushed, emboldened. “I can be anyone for you, angel. Anyone you want.” They waved a hand between his face and theirs, and were suddenly the spitting image of Anathema Device. Again, and they wore the stern face of the Archangel Uriel. Once more, and they were Famine, all handsome and hungry. Then Madame Tracy, wise and worldly. Again and again and again, and this time they looked like a series of different James Bond actors. “I can be Oscar Wilde. Lord Byron. Jane Austen. Shakespeare.” But when they looked at their angel again, Aziraphale had sat back on the floor, and his expression had changed to something crestfallen. Almost offended.

“Crowley, stop.” It very nearly sounded like a plea.

“W-what?”

“Listen to me,” the angel said sternly. “Listen to every word I am about to say, and commit it to memory. I do _not_ want you to _ever_ do that again. Don't ever be anyone but yourself. You are breathtakingly beautiful in every form you take that is _you_, my darling, but I most certainly don't want to make love to you while pretending you're someone else. I don't _fantasize_ about anyone who isn't you. I do not ever want to have _intimate relations_, real or imaginary, with any non-Crowley individual _ever again_. For as long as I exist. Do you understand?”

“Oh. Unh. Ngk.” Crowley was simultaneously abashed at having failed to please, and delighted by being wanted for who they were, not the faces they could wear. And also exhausted. Making so many drastic changes to their corporeal body was a bit draining. They laid back against the arm of the chair and stared unblinking at the ceiling.

“You can be a man,” Aziraphale said, “Or a woman, or non-binary an any _number_ of delightful ways. You are so clever at the whole gender business, my dear. And shifting your form, too, though I will always respect your gender identity regardless of whether or not you alter your appearance to go along with it.” He kissed Crowley's hand again. “But don't stop being you. It's you, and _only_ you, that I love. _Favour my solemn song, for I have loved thee ever and thee only; I have watched thy shadow and the darkness of thy steps, and my heart ever gazes on the depth of thy deep mysteries..._”

Crowley could not bring himself to look back at Aziraphale just yet. If they continued to stare at the ceiling, and did not blink, it would not become apparent just how teary-eyed they had become.

But then again...

Aah, fuck it. They sat up. They blinked. A few teardrops fell. It was No Big Deal. After last night they'd vowed to themself that they wouldn't hold back anymore. Wouldn't try to hide their feelings from their beloved angel. They were safe, they could trust, they could let their guard down. So they did. Aziraphale simply smiled endearingly and brought his hands up to Crowley's face, wiping at the tears with his thumbs.

“I'm alright, angel. And th-thank you.” They held their arms out, and Aziraphale rose, pulling Crowley to their feet. They enfolded each other into a fierce embrace, and kissed ardently. There was no desperate need in it, no maddening hunger, just a very straightforward, very _loving_ kiss.

“You know, I rather think,” Aziraphale mused when their lips drew apart, “that you might be on what the humans call the _asexuality spectrum_. Only you can decide whether that label applies to you, of course, but you might want do some research in that area as well. The better you understand yourself, the better you can articulate what you want, and what you don't want. I know you're not much into books, but I can recommend some articles I've read; you could probably find them with that, ah... the thing on your phone.”

Crowley grinned. “Very well, angel. I shall consult The Google.” They laughed, and might have collapsed to the ground had Aziraphale not been holding them up. It was relief just as much as mirth that flooded their being; it would be alright. Aziraphale understood. Why had Crowley ever entertained the notion that the clever angel might not?

“I rather think I'd like to do a bit of reading, myself,” Aziraphale declared. “And I'd be quite happy to do so all tucked up in bed with you lying in my arms. What do you say to that, my love?”

Crowley buried their face in Aziraphale's shoulder, the laughter fading and a few tears soaking the shoulder of the time-worn waistcoat.

“_You may_,” Crowley replied, smothering a giggle, and Aziraphale treated them to the most gorgeous smile they'd seen yet.

They kissed again, and then they got undressed, but it lacked the sexually charged tension of lovers rushing to make short work of the other's clothing. It was just... two sweethearts, getting ready for bed. Crowley hadn't brought any sleepwear, but was provided with an oversized shirt that looked at _least_ a hundred years old. It was comfortable, at least, and ever so slightly Aziraphale-scented, so Crowley was happy enough to wear it. Aziraphale wandered down into the shop in a robe and pajama bottoms to fetch a particular book, and then returned. The pair climbed into the double bed and got comfortable.

It was okay, Crowley thought. It was more than okay. They could be together, they could be themselves, they could be _in love_, and there was no need for sex, or extraordinary amounts of alcohol, or arguments about morality or sides, or anyone begging anyone else to run away with them. They could just _be_.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and all the lights except the tiny old lamp on the cluttered nightstand winked out. “Yes, my treasure?”

“I like it when... um... with the poetry.”

“Aah,” Aziraphale remarked. “Well then. Give me a moment to think.” The angel scratched his chin and looked up at the ceiling. “Aah. Here's one of my favourites?”

Crowley leaned their head on Aziraphale's shoulder. They trusted their angel to pick something pretty.

_“Who will in fairest book of nature know_  
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,  
Let him but learn of love to read in thee,  
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.  
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,  
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty  
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;  
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.  
And, not content to be perfection's heir  
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,  
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.  
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,  
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:  
But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!" ” 

Crowley's face flushed hot again, and they nuzzled into Aziraphale's neck, placing a kiss there. They wiggled around to get more comfortable, sleepily poking at their phone for a bit. Aziraphale was so amazingly _soft_ and pleasant to be held by. “Thank you,” they whispered to him, already drifting toward sleep. They might have to put a stop to the angel's overfondness for pet names, they thought briefly. It was... no. It was sweet. They liked it. They really did. And it was so freeing to be able to admit that to themself.

“My pleasure,” Aziraphale replied, opening his book and setting a bookmark on the nightstand. “Sleep well, love.”

And Crowley did.

\-- 

Crowley awoke to a tickling on the back of his neck. It was Aziraphale's breath. Evidently he had tired of reading and actually drifted off, falling naturally into the position of Big Spoon. Crowley luxuriated in their shared warmth for a bit, relaxing in his angel's soft but strong arms, before wiggling a little away to could give in to a bodily impulse to stretch. That was when he noticed something else.

He? Yes. That's what felt right, for the moment. His body had shifted back to its most common appearance overnight. And that's not the only thing that had changed; _most_ of Crowley's body was completely relaxed. There was, however, one bit that rather _stood out_. He hadn't even been putting any effort into _having_ that particular bit when he'd gone to sleep... but evidently some dream had given him cause to manifest it, and there it was, rather painfully erect.

He moaned quietly and rolled onto his stomach, flushed and hoping he could just will it away. But even the motion of rolling over caused all kinds of sensations. He found himself unconsciously grinding his hips into the mattress.

Aziraphale must have heard or felt something, because his breathing quickened from the slow steady rhythm of one asleep.

“Everything alright, Crowley?” he asked.

“Mmmmmpph” said Crowley into a pillow, trying to still the movement of his hips. A whimper escaped him.

“Oh is _that_ all?” Aziraphale whispered knowingly. Crowley could practically _feel_ the smirk radating off the angel's face. “Do let me know if you'd like help taking care of that, my dear.”

Crowley let out a breath. He supposed he didn't _really_ have to be embarrassed by bodily functions such as this. He rolled onto his back. “Yes, please,”

Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek. “Well then. I've got just the thing for you.” A hand firmly but gently took hold of one of Crowley's, and dragged it over closer. And down, inside Aziraphale's pajama bottoms. What Crowley found there wasn't what he was expecting at _all_. Not that it was a bad thing, of course.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, guiding Crowley's hand further. “Not my usual. But I'm rather in the mood for this, if you are.”

There was heat, and slick dampness there. Enough that Crowley thought perhaps the angel had been having erotic dreams as well. Crowley rolled to his side, so he could get a better angle, curious fingers sliding gently inside. They were welcomed by a blissful little sigh, which forced an audible intake of breath from Crowley.

“My dear,” Aziraphale was saying, “You don't have to do anything; I'm ready for you.”

“We'll get to that,” Crowley whispered. “I can hold out for a bit. Please, angel. Let me? You were so good to me the other night at my place. Let me do this for you.” It had been such a _very_ long time since Crowley had done this, but he thought, judging by the sounds Aziraphale was making, that he could figure it out. He'd manifested this particular genital configuration on himself often enough that he knew where everything _was_, certainly, and there had certainly been times when he'd had occasion to be touching himself, herself, themself, particularly while pining after a certain angel. A certain angel who he _now_ had right next to him in bed.

And so he pressed and stroked and circled Aziraphale's clitoris, drawing a satisfied whimper. Then he switched it up, two fingers penetrating the vaginal canal deeply. Then back to the clit. Seeing the angel's hands bunched in the bedsheets was encouraging.

Crowley worked on him determinedly for minute after drawn-out minute, drawing him to not-quite-climax a couple of times. “Ohhhh, _Crowley_, you are such a _tease_.”

It was true. He enjoyed teasing. He was good at it. But the form Aziraphale was wearing was capable of multiple orgasms, was it not? So this time he worked until it took him over the brink, smiling down at the contortions on his face, pleased with his work. He took his fingers away and tasted them.

Then, possessed by some unholy need, he tore away the bedsheets and tugged at Aziraphale's clothing, crawling closer. A mere taste was not enough. Up close, the smell was intoxicating. He dove in, his tongue and fingers working in concert, coaxing all sorts of beautiful noises out of the whimpering angel.

“Oh! Oh my, I'm going to...” Crowley felt muscles tightening up around his busy fingers once again, and then Aziraphale let out another relaxed sigh.

Crowley didn't want to let up. He wanted to spend all morning here just making his angel whimper and sigh like that. Aziraphale had other ideas, though. He grabbed Crowley by his underarms and hauled him up so they lay face to face, Crowley on top. There were kisses, sweet sweet hungry kisses, then the angel pulled to the side to whisper something in Crowley's ear.

_”I want you inside me.”_ His tone and urgency matched almost precisely how Crowley had said the exact same thing on Saturday night.

From the other side of things, Crowley suddenly understood why that phrase had made Aziraphale suddenly become so blasted urgent the other night. The feeling of being wanted made him _want_ all the more. He brought a hand down to his own aching hardness, positioned it, then looked to Aziraphale for a cue. The angel nodded and whispered “Please.”

He pushed inside, as carefully and gently as he could manage. Aziraphale let out a contented sigh and said something along the lines of “Oh, that's nice,” but Crowley's brain was barely able to comprehend. He couldn't even be upset by the use of that very undemonic four-letter word. He felt surrounded by Aziraphale's heat, so sweet and slick. He was warm, and safe, and protected. Like standing under a sheltering white wing as the first ever raindrops landed heavily on the parched earth. He moved inside Aziraphale, and they were moving together, both with each other and against each other, growing faster and more desperate.

He really had hoped to hold out longer, but everything was just so overwhelmingly _good_. He pushed and pushed until he was sure he could push no longer and somehow found reserves to keep pounding on, and when Aziraphale gasped and dug nails into his back, Crowley let go. They sighed together, riding out the shockwaves.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale whispered reverently. Crowley nuzzled into his neck. It was alright, this. He didn't even mind being called nice. This time, anyway.

Neither of them used any miracles to tidy anything up this time. Instead they fumbled together into the bathroom's tiny shower, and stood in a crowded embrace under a stream of hot water, gently washing each other clean.

“I must say, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, scrubbing Crowley's back, which the demon leaned into. “I think I'm going to learn a lot from this whole experience. Learn to appreciate the things we can do as lovers _other_ than sex. But the sex is still my favourite part of this new chapter in our relationship.”

“Lewd,” Crowley replied with a snicker, then briefly groaned and leaned harder into the scrubbing and rubbing hands. “Lassciviousss, licentiouss, lubriciouss lussssty angel.”

“You forgot libidinous. _And_ lecherous.” A hand dropped from Crowley's back to gently spank his bottom.

“Oh my, still really keen on punishing me, then, are you?” he asked. A little slap on the butt wasn't so scary, he supposed. Crowley could tell that Aziraphale's more traditional phallic arrangement of between-the-legs gear had returned, as he could feel it gently pressing against him. “Because, I mean, I also forgot all the ones that don't start with L. Horny bastard, for example?”

“If you keep up this teasing,” Aziraphale warned, cupping Crowley's behind with the one wandering hand, “Which is to say, if you keep up being so steamy, my sly serpent, so _sensual_ and _suggestive_, I'm going to become inclined to do something... salacious. Or maybe even _ssscurrilous.”_. He pressed a kiss into the back of Crowley's neck with the last word.

Previously, even just two or three days previously, Crowley would have been more than a bit bothered by any mockery of his tendency to let the letter s get drawn out in his speech from time to time. But he knew Aziraphale, at least, was just gently poking fun, with nothing but love in his heart. Love, and perhaps a bit of lust.

“Alright, angel,” he conceded, “Enough with all the... thesaurus alliteration.”

“You started it, my... my dearest, darling, dashing, dastardly demon.”

“Pff.”

“Well you _did_.”

“S'pose I ought to finish it then.” Crowley turned in the cramped shower so the two of them were face to face. He ran a hand down Aziraphale's fuzzy chest and well-rounded abdomen, and down further, glancing into his eyes for permission before taking hold of the plump stiffening phallus he found there. He gave it a gentle squeeze, which caused its owner to emit a bit of a squeak. “Like that, do you?”

“Oh yes.”

He gave a few long gentle strokes. “You're perfect,” he whispered. “My perfect, beautiful angel. _Mine_. I promise I will try my best,” he slid down so he was on his knees. It was very crowded, but Crowley found a way to arrange his skinny limbs so that they fit. “Not to tease you too much unless I'm prepared to follow through.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Aziraphale started to say, then let out a little “Oh!” as Crowley took him into his mouth. Just an inch or so, and then slowly deeper, sucking gently, running his tongue up and down the shaft.

Still soft, still gentle. Still teasing.

“Oh my goodness,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You are an _excellent_ tease, Crowley, and this _is_ pleasant, but I worry that the hot water will run out and we'll be left here in the cold if you don't hurry it up. Get a wiggle on, as it were.”

Crowley laughed, which was hard to do with his mouth so deliciously full. He carefully grazed Aziraphale's length with his teeth, drawing forth an “Oooh.” Then he relaxed the muscles in his throat so he could take him all the way in, all the while working his clever snakey tongue.

Aziraphale took two handfuls of Crowley's hair, and grunted in satisfaction, rocking his hips gently.

Crowley brought his hands up to help his mouth with its work, one grabbing Aziraphale's rump for steadiness and balance, and the other wrapping around the base of the angel's prick.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said again, thrusting into Crowley's mouth. Crowley hummed appreciatively, and sucked harder as the thrusts sped up. This was all that mattered right now. Six thousand years of uncertain pining were worth every delighted little sigh Aziraphale made.

It didn't last very long, as it happened. Aziraphale lost control at around the point where Crowley had managed to wrap his tongue _all the way around..._ There were a few final thrusts, and then Aziraphale was leaning back against the tiled wall of the shower letting out a contented sigh.

With help, Crowley climbed back to his feet. He felt no great urgency himself, just a great deal of gratified pride, that he was able to make his angel so happy. Aziraphale's hands immediately returned to Crowley's hair.

“You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“When your hair was long,” Aziraphale's fingers gently massaged Crowley's scalp a bit. “You cannot know how many times I wished I could run my fingers through your lovely curls.”

“I could let it grow out again, if you want,” Crowley mumbled, a blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears, to the back of his neck.

“Only if _you_ want, my dear,” was the fervent response, though there was excitement in that tone. “You needn't remake yourself just to please me, you know.”

“Well now I want nothing more,” Crowley insisted, placing a quick kiss on Aziraphale's lips. “I can't _wait_ to feel your pretty little fingers all tangled up in my hair.”

They said nothing further, but shared adoring smiles and moved into an embrace.

The water falling from the showerhead started to lose warmth, and rather than fixing that with minor miracles, they simply finished washing up, got out, and dried off. Back in the bedroom, Aziraphale gave the growing daylight outside the window a thoughtful glance, then shrugged. He climbed back into bed, then patted the spot next to him, smiling hopefully at Crowley.

“Not gonna open the bookshop today?” Crowley asked, scooting over into the indicated spot and resting his sharp chin on Aziraphale's soft shoulder, planting a soft kiss on the side of his jaw.

“Perhaps later,” Aziraphle replied. “You know, I've been thinking... about retirement. Perhaps some day soon? Sell the shop and get a little cottage out in the countryside somewhere. Something with room for my books, and big windows so your plants will have plenty of light... and a proper kitchen. Maybe an outdoor garden, too. But only if that appealed to you as well, of course. I want you in my life as much as possible, so I could never leave London if you felt inclined to stay.”

Crowley's mind drifted a wee bit as Aziraphale rambled on. Leave London and all the nice bars and cafes and parks and fancy restaurants, and trendy shops full of stylish clothing? Leave the nightlife, and the little old record stores with obscure singles and out-of-print albums? Leave the hustle and bustle of the city behind, to go live in some quaint cottage with his silly doddering old angel?

Leave the smog, the traffic, the rude neighbours, the graffiti, the noise? Have his own garden? Grow fruit trees, perhaps?

Maybe it wasn't such a terrible idea after all. “Might be nice, someday,” he said, in partial agreement. “If we manage to find just the right place. We could start by spending weekends and holidays there. And then one day move in permanently, if it suits us. We could even go for a drive later today and start looking, if you like.”

“Might be nice,” Aziraphale agreed, placing a kiss on Crowley's forehead.

“One thing, though.”

“Yes, oh my dearest and most beloved?”

“If I'm expected to keep my hands to myself in public, then you're not allowed to call me _dewdrop_ or _rosepetal_ in public either.”

“I suppose that's fair,” Aziraphale conceded, trying not to sound too disappointed.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> The little snatch of poetry Aziraphale recites from in this one is part of “Alastor; or, the Spirit of Solitude” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The longer poem is Sonnet 71 from Astrophel and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney. Like my previous fic, "May I?" this can work as a stand-alone, but also fits into a series that is going to continue.
> 
> Comments appreciated always.


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